


let's give them something to talk about

by lacecat



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: (Or is it?), Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, F/F, Flirting, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Canon, immortals in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25384303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacecat/pseuds/lacecat
Summary: “Nicky brought the mustache style to Italy, you know,” Joe offers out of nowhere. He can nearly hear Andy’s eye roll. “I believe it was sometime in the early 1400s - wasn’t it?”“Ah, yes,” Nicky says, with a sage nod. “You inspired me one morning, and I thought to shave off the bottom.”“It was the eve before the Battle of San Romano, I believe, and not a man could take his eyes off of you the next day.”“That explains why you died at least twice that day.”“I am forever fixated on you.”“You’re both kidding,” Nile says, “Right?”“You should probably just sleep,” Andy advises. “They do this a lot.”-----In which Nicky and Joe take liberties with recounting history, because it's fun.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, pre-Nile/Andy
Comments: 137
Kudos: 1450





	let's give them something to talk about

**Author's Note:**

> (what is this??? I don't even know!!!)  
> please enjoy, I have feelings about this whole queer immortal found family that aren't going anywhere anytime soon

\---

Once they’re led off the plane, they’re carted off to some high-rise building - somewhere in London, Joe notes, recognizing some of the other buildings which loom high above their heads, as he and Nicky are led up into one of these high rises which gleam with metal and glass in long, straight lines. 

Inside, they’re met by the man who’s paid Copley to trick them, and they’re forced to listen to the madman go on about their contribution to his worldly cause. 

“He thinks you’re a mouse, Nicky,” Joe says at one point, more than a little exasperated at this whole scenario. Their captor, after all, is wearing what appears to be a hoodie tucked underneath a blazer and yet somehow over a button-down shirt all at once.

There’s making enemies by kidnapping them, and then there’s just having _no taste._ The second offense is almost worse. The eventual needle in his neck is the smallest bit welcome, only because it takes away the sight of those hideous white sneakers.

After they’re been tied up in the laboratory and subject to drilling (the distasteful needle kind, alas, not at all like that time in Malta) and other various sampling methods, Joe muses, “This experience is not at all endearing me to this style of architecture. I should let them know.” 

From beside him, Nicky says, “I don’t think they need another excuse to hit you again.” He seems to be ignoring the doctor who’s scribbling down something at the desk down below their feet, like the way they’re both ignoring the very real possibility that the next time the doors open, it’ll be Andy and Booker and the young Nile dragged in to be imprisoned alongside them.

So Joe ignores her, too. For the second time in twenty-four hours, he says, “What are they going to do, kill me?” The pen stops scribbling for the briefest moment, but maybe that’s his imagination. “I think you have too much faith in my charm.” 

Nicky just sighs, though. Joe starts turning his head to the side, and then back again, trying to stretch out his neck, listening to the steady breathing coming from his left the entire time. 

He gives up after a while, because it’ll eventually heal fully anyways, and he’d rather spend his time with his second favorite thing to do, which is to watch Nicky. First favorite activity, of course, would require having a full range of motion, and one he’d prefer not to have an audience for. 

He has, admittedly, received the brunt of the injuries out of the two of them since they were taken off the plane. That headbutt, though, was still worth its pain in gold, as was the opportunity he took to spit on the men back in that van as he and Nicky had killed them.

The doctor disappears out of their sight, perhaps to another room, or maybe just out of range of hearing. A shame, because Joe was considering the likelihood of her being guilted once again - Nicky had tried, but it might’ve been worth another shot.

As if he can read his thoughts (which Joe’s fairly certain he is unable to, despite much evidence to the contrary), Nicky says, “I’m not sure how you’re going to be able to talk us out of this one.” 

“I was going to ask you the same,” Joe says. 

It’s an old joke of theirs. People like Nicky, have for the past thousand years or so. Even though Joe is the one who Andy assigns to charm targets into dark, camera-free alleyways, they just tell Nicky things. Joe likes to think that it’s some faint remnant of being a priest that people pick up on, in Nicky’s posture or voice, that make them want to speak to him, trust those wide eyes like they’re speaking to a family member and not a stranger. It’s not a matter of him not having the ability to grift someone, it’s a fact that he has the added advantage of having the face of an angel. 

(He can hear Nicky’s voice in his head because he’s told him this before: _I think you’re a little biased_ , which is quite absolutely true.) 

Nicky says, “I want to be the one to do it.” Presumably to kill Merrick, and as Joe sees the tightness around his mouth, he probably hasn’t forgotten the man stabbing Joe like that. Like a mouse. 

Switching to an old dialect that only the other man will understand, Joe says, “I have been told before, by someone who I am quite fond of, that I let my mouth run at the most inopportune times.” 

He sees the corner of Nicky’s mouth relax a little at that. “Who told you that? I’ll end him for such slander.”

“Well, I can’t have that,” Joe says, still looking at him. Even in the harsh light of the laboratory, the profile of Nicky’s forehead, his nose, the curves of which he’s long memorized bring him unspeakable solace now. “And you think I’m the protective one.” 

Nicky raises his wrists as much as he can, given the restraints. “I wouldn’t call this protecting you.” 

“When they move us, if there’s a moment in which I can distract them, and they give you the chance to slip away - “

“Should I be offended that you think others will think so little of me?” Nicky’s tone is light, but pointed, as he turns to look right back at Joe. 

“It means I do not care to see you in pain here, even temporarily,” Joe says, “And will encourage anything to that effect.” 

“You’re a foolish man,” Nicky says in his own mother tongue now, voice softening the words to an impossible sweetness, “If you think that your injuries don’t hurt me in turn, however temporary.” 

“I know,” Joe assures him in return, “I only wish - “ 

He lets the words trail off, but Nicky, as usual, understands him anyways. “You’re my romantic fool,” Nicky says, softly, like before. 

Faintly, there’s a rustle of paper somewhere behind their heads - the moment is broken by the realization that they’re not alone, that they’re still trapped here. Joe is ready to let it slide, but then there’s some glint in Nicky’s eye that makes him take pause, watch him for whatever comes next. 

He’s not quite expecting, however, when Nicky says, loudly and in English, “Did you know that this man here, he single-handedly burned down the library of Alexandria?”

Joe snorts. It’s not like they necessarily know how long he and Nicky have been around, but still - 

“You were right to put him in cuffs,” Nicky continues, pitched so the scientist can hear him, then like he’s speculating, “I think he might’ve been involved in starting your hundred-year war too. Your people lost that, didn’t you?”

“It’s so difficult to keep track of all those squabbles,” Joe confesses, and he and Nicky share a smile that warms him up from the inside, despite everything. 

  
\---

  
The doors do burst open eventually, and it’s the same guards, bringing in Andy and Booker. Joe pushes down the blinding rage upon learning about Booker’s betrayal, tempered by the faint glimmer of hope that Nile managed to escape. He tries to focus on Nicky’s words to him, trying to coax him away from the impulse to scream at the other man until his throat gives, because what else can he do?

But then Nile eventually rescues them, and she’s the one to kill Merrick. Joe breaks the back of the man who shot Nicky, and they drive away in a stolen car, covered with blood and reeking of sweat and gunsmoke. 

The adrenaline fades, and since no one knows quite what to do now, Joe continues to drive.

In the rearview window, he can see Andy staring out the window, away from Booker and everyone else. The shock of finding out that Andy is now mortal has faded, somewhat, though Joe supposes it’s not something that he’s able to fully contemplate for its implications for the rest of them at this moment. 

Joe sees the top of Nile’s head too, when she starts to slump over, falling asleep on Andy from the looks of it. With the extent of her injuries from falling out of that hideous building, he can’t blame her. He can barely make out Booker’s expression from this angle but knows that the man won’t be saying anything until they decide what to do with him. 

In the passenger seat, Nicky is inspecting his face in the mirror, finally scrubbing off the last bits of visible dried blood. 

He says, more to Joe than anyone else, “Maybe I should grow out a beard.” 

“If you think that’ll hide the blood,” Joe says, “I have some unfortunate news for you.” He can feel it drying in his own, the only evidence of the injuries he received during their escape. He’s not sure he remembers what Nicky looks like with significant facial hair, so it’s an intriguing concept that he ruminates on for a moment. 

Nicky leans over to bump his shoulder against his, a welcome tough after the harrowing events these past few days. “Maybe I just want to see how it looks. It’s been a while.” 

“Hm,” Joe says, pretending to consider this, “I’m not sure you’re even able to grow hair, actually. You might be doomed with those soft cheeks forever.”

“Once we get out of here,” Nicky tells him, “I will make you pay for that.” The effect is ruined by the pleasing curve on his mouth like he’s realized that they’re free once again. 

Joe wants to press a kiss to that mouth, realizes that nothing is stopping him now, and he leans over to do so. 

He manages to slide his tongue right beside Nicky's, Nicky's hand going right to his thigh, before Andy is warning him from the backseat that she _better not die in a fucking car accident_ , and Nicky pulls away so that Joe can refocus on the road. 

  
Or so he thinks. Nicky says again, a little more breathless now, "Payback." 

Joe says, “I do hope you mean paying in a way reminiscent of - was it Berlin, ’26, that time?” 

“It was 27, and there will be at least three broken beds.” 

“Others,” Andy says, with little bite in her tone, “Are in this car,” and Joe can see one of Booker’s eyes crinkle with a smile in the mirror, now, before he ducks his head, hiding his face. 

“You are,” Nicky says, rather agreeably. Joe considers the price of Andy’s wrath if he leaned over to kiss him once again.

From the backseat, Nile seems to remember where she is, and she sheepishly moves off of Andy’s shoulder, rubbing his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Nicky brought the mustache style to Italy, you know,” Joe offers out of nowhere. He can nearly hear Andy’s eye roll. “I believe it was sometime in the early 1430s - wasn’t it?” 

“Ah, yes,” Nicky says, with a sage nod. “You inspired me one morning, and I thought to shave off the bottom.” 

“It was the eve before the Battle of San Romano, I believe, and not a man could take his eyes off of you the next day.” 

“That explains why you died at least twice that day.”

“I am forever fixated on you.”

“Oh, but it wasn’t me that Leonardo sought out to paint that time - say, I think there’s still some of those sketches in our flat in Tokyo. He was quite taken by you,” Nicky says, “Not that I can blame him.”

“You’re both kidding,” Nile says, “Right?”

“You should probably just sleep,” Andy advises. “They do this a lot.” 

  
———

  
After Booker leaves for a century, Andy and Nile go their own way, and Joe and Nicky do go to Malta. 

Their vacation lasts about seven months, living in a cottage on the western coast that one of them had bought decades and decades ago. During that time, Nicky grows his hair long, then cuts it short again. Joe briefly misses the ability to tug at his hair, before reacquainting himself to the soft skin above the nape of his neck, now shaved bare, and finds himself suitably appeased. 

They spend long, lazy days in bed together. Joe fills up three sketchbooks with the shape of Nicky’s body, loose from sleep in the morning, and the colors of the cliffs illuminated at sunset. Nicky convinces him to revisit museums all over the country, where they can sneak in with sunglasses, and they have a competition on how many of the artifacts they can each recognize. 

They have those months of peace. Then they find some trouble to get involved in. 

Nicky had only gone out to get olives and _kannoli_ that day, and he had been in the wrong grocery store at the right time, overheard something strange from the burly man who had owned the shop. Nicky had asked an older woman about it, and one thing led to another, and he had discovered that there was a drug operation growing in the next city over. 

While that on itself might not have been enough to warrant his attention, Nicky had put in a call to one of his sources, just in case. It turns out the same drug lord had dipped into human trafficking as well, and then Nicky had the address of the abandoned house where the latest women were being kept, and someone willing to pay them a handsome sum to get rid of the problem without the legal system even knowing about it. 

They’d run operations like this before, only the two of them, in between those past jobs with Andy and Booker. Joe gets the run-down from him quickly when Nicky comes back, and he immediately goes to the safe where they’re keeping the ammunition. 

They storm the place, and it’s messy from the start. They take down most of the drug runners, figure out where the women are being kept. But towards the end of the carnage, Joe gets two bullets in the neck and in the head, and he bleeds out on the concrete.

He comes to with Nicky’s voice echoing in the room: “ — but you hurt him,” and then there’s a single, final shot. 

Joe rolls over, sees Nicky standing in the middle of the room, over a crumpled body. Joe manages to get out, “Are - all right?”

Nicky’s already headed back over to him as soon as he’s speaking. He lifts Joe’s head gently with his fingers, thumb curling over his jaw, cataloging his already fading injuries. Joe does the same, as always. 

“I should be asking you that,” Nicky says. Joe nods, his fingers come to press over Nicky’s, feeling the skin knitting back together on his throat under their hands.

“The women have left, I told them where the police station was,” Nicky tells him then, “They didn’t see anything - “ 

They both turn at a noise, then. One of the men is dragging himself, painfully slowly, across the concrete, evidently trying to make his escape from the immortals. 

Nicky checks his gun. “No more bullets,” he says, “Yours?” 

  
Joe shakes his head. One of the downsides of a two-man operation is that it’s a lot easier to run out of bullets, unfortunately. “Maybe in the car?” 

It takes them another moment to realize that the man is muttering under his breath, sounding rather frantic. Something about how impossible it is, that they shouldn’t be alive - 

They’ve heard it before. It’s usually along those lines - disbelief, pure shock, even this brand of fear that they’re still alive, somehow, impossibly. The man’s witnessed Joe’s revival, and he’s far from innocent, both of which mean they can’t let him go. It would be a shame to be exiled from Malta over this. 

Like he knows they’re watching him, the man turns his head. Joe doesn’t quite understand the language he speaks, but Nicky’s body language goes tight all over, and then he relaxes like he’s forcing it to. 

“It’s the twenty-first century,” Nicky says, “Those are not nice words to refer to us.”

“Ah,” Joe says, “Small-minded people exist in every century, do they not?” 

The man has stopped moving. He’ll bleed out, most likely, but his eyes flit between the two of them, a combination of fear and rage. “It’s impossible,” he spits out, “Some - you made some pact with the devil - “

“This man,” Joe says, with a nod up to Nicky, “He is as far from evil as any higher power you might believe in. The love in his heart surpasses my expectations every day, and I am lucky to bask in his generous love for me.” 

“I did shoot him and his friends just now,” Nicky points out mildly.

“I believe Michelangelo gazed upon his face,” Joe continues anyways, “And he was struck not only by his grace but the goodness that radiated out from him. He was inspired to continue to paint the Sistine Chapel, upon speaking with my Nicolò, so that there might be a place on Earth that others can worship in such places which reflect the warmth from his soul.” 

Nicky, very gently, shoves him in the arm. The man is staring at them with wide eyes, now. “Give me one moment,” Nicky says to him, before standing up and pulling the knife out of his ankle holster. 

Joe grimaces as he feels the last bits of his skin knit together, the bullet falling out onto the concrete. Nicky walks away, and there’s a gurgle, and then silence. 

Nicky rises once again, wiping the knife off on his trousers. “The Sistine Chapel?” 

“I could have done that,” Joe says, pushing himself up onto his elbows. 

“You have seen me kill many people,” Nicky says, “Including yourself, and yet you say that like I’ve never killed anyone before.” His eyes are unspeakably fond, though, as he comes back over to help Joe up. 

Joe accepts his hand, tugging him up to standing once again. “Your competency is one of the countless things I love about you,” Joe says, his hand coming up to the side of his jaw. “I like to take care of you, habibi.” 

Nicky twists to kiss the inside of his wrist, once and quick. “We should probably leave,” he says. Joe knows he means the country, and there’s a quick pang all the same. He likes Malta. “Where have we not been this century?”

“I can come up with a few places,” Joe says, “Anywhere you want.” 

“Anywhere,” Nicky says. A promise. 

  
\---

  
They reunite with Andy and Nile in Bucharest. 

Apparently, Andy’s been teaching Nile these past few months - how to fly a plane, introducing them to her contacts, and all the little tricks on how to best hide one’s immortality. Andy has the faintest lines around her eyes, and she hugs him as tightly as ever. 

"It's good to see you, boss," Joe says, a little muffled, as Nicky and Nile smile at them from over her shoulder. 

They get seated in the back corner of a smoky, crowded restaurant. Halfway through their meal, Joe watches Andy split the piece of baklava in half, offering half to Nile without a word. 

They’re clearly dancing around each other, something that Joe would've picked up on as soon as he sees how Nile’s eyes linger just a little too long on Andy’s face, or the way that Andy watches everyone in the restaurant except for her. Trusting her in her blind spots, like how Joe and Nicky cover each other's backs when going into a fight. 

It’s an interesting development, but not entirely unexpected. Joe remembers the way that Andy would only relax when Quynh was by her side, and thinks that she hasn’t looked so happy in centuries at least. 

Halfway through, Nicky catches his hand, laces his fingers through his, like he sees it too. Joe lets himself enjoy this - their family, this time of peace, rare and precious. 

At one point, Nile and Nicky are talking about their travels. Andy is lounging in her chair, listening, as is Joe. 

“You should go to Pamukkale then,” Nicky says, “I remembered when they excavated the city - the baths from Hierapolis are worth it alone.” His foot nudges against Joe’s under the table. 

Ah, those baths. It was for their - approximate - two hundred year anniversary, he thinks. It had been after the earthquake, and he had Nicky splayed out on the marble ruins for about two weeks, with little complaint. He thinks he might’ve accidentally told Andy about that time, when he was a little drunk, for the look that she gives him when he starts to open his mouth. 

“We’ll go after Giza,” Nile says, then a little bashfully, “I always wanted to see the pyramids. Andy took me to the ones in Argolis, and I was reading about the mounds at Túcume the other day. It’s really fascinating how the structures were altered over time - well. You probably know all about that." 

“It never ceases to amaze how history is crafted, or what is built to endure,” Nicky says, “Now, when you’re in Denizli, there’s this place that serves the best - oh, what was it called, Joe? It was that place we went to every week for months in the sixties."

Joe wracks his mind - admittedly, they try to write down things like this, rather than recall. Nile says, “It’s going to be really embarrassing if I ask around for some restaurant that closed one hundred and fifty years ago.”

“No, the 1960s this time,” Nicky says. “It’s not far from the old cemetery, anyway.”

“I don’t know how you can try to remember anything,” Nile admits. 

“Some things stand out more than others,” Joe tells her. Nicky’s stroking his thumb alongside the side of his palm. “The important memories - it doesn’t matter if they fade, because their imprint lasts.” 

They lapse into a kind of reflective, solemn silence at that. Andy’s eyes are on Nile, now, and they share some kind of long look that makes Joe think of how he and Nicky were, even in the early years. It makes a kind of sad feeling erupt in his chest, then, because Andy is aging in front of them, and it’s irrational, but he can’t help but think it’s _not fair_ that their time is already limited - 

“Nile, did you know,” Nicky interrupts that train of thought, “That Babur wrote a lot of poetry for Joe?"

The moment is broken. Nile leans forward, "Babur?"

  
  
"Perhaps you’ve heard of the Baburnama, his letters? Babri Masjid, in Ayodhya?” 

Nile says, “The - like, the founder of the Mughal empire?”

  
“Mm,” Nicky says agreeably. “We had a bit of a spat in the mid-1500s, separated to clear our heads.” 

“Andijan was quite lovely in the summer,” Joe adds, “Delicious pears.” 

“The emperor was infatuated,” Nicky says, lifting their joined hands to kiss the back of Joe’s. “I had to steal his heart back.”

“You say that like you’ve never had a king in love with you, Nicolò, when I can name two off the top of my head - “ 

“Oh, remember in Linz, when you taught alongside Kepler for a few years? Nothing happened there, but I was still jealous of him taking up so much of your time - “ 

“Now you’re definitely fucking with me,” Nile says, “Because I can’t imagine the two of you being apart for a few hours, let alone years.” 

Joe lifts his other hand to his chest, faux-offended. “We are men of complexity, Nile, and that means inevitable conflict.” 

Nicky looks close to breaking character, and Nile turns to Andy as if for help. 

Andy just lifts one eyebrow, more at them than her. Nile repeats, “How would I know any better?”

“The 16th century,” Andy says, slowly, like she’s recalling something, or maybe drawing out the words on purpose, “Nicky, you were close to that Shakespeare too, right?” 

“Not you too,” Nile says, despairing. 

“Who do you think sonnet 20 was about?” Joe asks. 

\---

  
Perhaps the joke goes a little too far, because Nile takes photos of any sculpture or painting that vaguely resembles them, captioning them with “this u?” and sends them to Joe and Nicky. 

At first, they’re flattering, but then it’s a little insulting when she takes a photo of two squat rocks somewhere by La Leche River, the text “joe and nicky??????” below it in hot pink.

“That’s actually quite sweet,” Nicky says, while Joe makes another indignant sound, pressed up against him in their bed and peering over his shoulder at the phone.

"And how so, exactly?" 

“They’re like us, those rocks. For all of eternity, pressed together against the elements, with not even the endless weathering taking them apart.” Nicky leans his head back onto Joe's chest.

“She certainly did not mean it in that way,” Joe tells him. 

Nicky screenshots the photo, says, “Perhaps you’re not the only romantic.” 

For that, Joe just has to kiss him, long and deep, turning him over so that his forearms can bracket Nicky’s head. Nicky’s fingers tangle in his hair, tugging and guiding him and he’s making the kind of noises that means they’re probably not going to make it out to dinner tonight, after all. 

Not that Joe minds, not when Nicky twists so that Joe’s falling back against the pillows now, Nicky with a satisfying kind of grin as he pins down his hips with his full weight. Joe falls in love all over again with the taste of Nicky on his lips, the way that he groans “Yusuf,” when he’s close, the way that he gives him a bright kind of smile when after, Joe reaches for his sketchbook to capture the way his hair falls loose on his forehead.

Later that night, when their legs are tangled together and Joe’s pressing a final kiss to the top of Nicky’s collarbone, he says, “Busan, next. We haven’t been there since it became a port.” 

“Mm,” Nicky says. His eyes are already half-closed, fingers tracing up and down Joe’s spine. “Wherever you want.” 

  
\---

  
In Düsseldorf International, they separate briefly so that Joe can get them food, while Nicky watches the bags. 

On his way back from the bakery, a postcard stand catches his eye - and for an unexpected reason. Joe stops mid-walk, and asks the shopkeeper in his slightly rusty German, "How much?" 

Nicky accepts the coffee and the streusel, asks, “What did you find?”, nodding at the small paper bag that Joe has tucked under his arm. 

Joe sets down his own cup, and he pulls out the single postcard. “I thought it looked familiar,” he says, showing Nicky the art on the front. Nicky doesn’t quite drop the streusel, but it’s close. “I have to say, I am scandalized, Nicolò, at this display of art theft.” 

Nicky looks from the postcard to his face, and back a few times. “Those aren’t what I think they are, are they?” 

“Yes,” Joe says, “They are.”

“Wh - how?”

“Well, we went back to Genoa for your name day, and you were quite insistent on celebrating, habibi. And I had bought new charcoal from that merchant downstairs, and you looked so gorgeous in the sunset - well, you were there too - “

“Are you sure it’s yours?”

“I’m pretty sure,” Joe says, “I would recognize my own sketches of you, especially en deshabille.” 

Nicky’s cheeks are turning a faint shade of pink, to his endless amusement. “On - the postcards? How did they even get those?”

“It’s no surprise that we’ve left some traces of us throughout history,” Joe says, “I think I might’ve lost that sketchbook around the time we found Booker.”

The flush has reached Nicky’s ears, now. “And someone just printed them, without regard to the owner? Those were _private_."

“They think they were from some other master,” Joe says, dismissively, “As if you would pose like that for any other artist.”

It’s one of his more favorites, upon inspection, that he can’t believe he forgot about now. Then again, when he has so many sketches of Nicky from over the centuries, and then the man in real life at his side who makes all of them pale in comparison, it’s easy to understand why he could.

“Andy can never know,” Nicky insists, “That is the opposite of keeping under the radar. No - _Nile_ can never know. She’ll think we’re serious all those other times. Can you buy the rest of them from that store?”

“They’ll think I have some sort of obsession for homoerotic sketches,” Joe points out, “Which, I suppose, isn’t entirely false - “

  
“Joe,” Nicky ways, “I will board this plane myself, and then I will be terribly miserable in Busan by myself, and it’ll be your fault.” 

“I’ll buy them all,” Joe promises, ducking down to press a kiss onto his hairline. “If you promise to pose again for me, so I can recreate such masterpieces." 

Nicky tilts his head up, lets Joe kiss him again despite the small, grumpy frown. “Only for you,” he says, resigned, and Joe smiles broadly against his mouth. 

\---

**Author's Note:**

> @villanellve on tumblr!


End file.
